“Please say a prayer,” I asked. The rabbi had a permanent look of world-weariness.
“ברוך שם כבוד מלכותו לעולם ועד,” the rabbi recited. “That is the holiest of all prayers, the Kaddish. It means, ‘Blessed be His name, whose glorious kingdom is forever.’”
“Thank you, Rabbi. I know Poppy wasn’t Jewish—”
“He’s one of us, Max.”
The rabbi placed his hand on my head, leaving it there for a long time, as if to give me strength, some blessing, some wisdom, hoping to release me from my sorrow.
Leaving the study with the hope that Poppy had found peace, I met up with Sophie and David. We walked over to the concert hall. Sitting at a piano at a corner of the stage, Hans stared at the keys and forced his broken and bandaged fingers to play. Slowly, with great effort, willing his hands to move, he managed to create a tune. David took up his violin, and so the four of us shared a moment, united in grief, knowing, all of us, that music had a perspective, a conscience, and knew right from wrong. It had the ability to heal and the ability to take us all to another place. I wasn’t alone at Terezín. I heard the song of it all. It was proof of my existence.
With every bit of will he could summon up, Hans played the opening melody from one of Poppy’s favorite pieces, “Theme and Variations,” written before the war. His shoulders were slumped over, his musical eulogy was vibrant, its faraway sounds joining my immeasurable sense of love and loss, serving up a tribute to my father.
Later, Hans managed to hold a cup of tea. “I’d offer you a cup, Max, but it’s really only a little hot water with lemon and a tea bag from Prague that has seen better days.”
I felt a wave of despair all around me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wretchedness, of Poppy, of everything.
Hans tried to change the subject, to a happier time.
“We’ve always loved him, haven’t we?”
“Tell me more about Poppy, Hans. Tell me things I never knew. Tell me what you remember. Anything.”
“There were so many good times. Viktor made hard times good and good times better. We met at the Conservatory. We were very different people then, maybe always, yet with so much in common. Music. In those days, your Poppy had a flamboyant lifestyle, so glamorous, conducting an orchestra, heading off to Paris, directing a play, inventing and always reinventing himself, playing roles like an actor. He was an actor, Max, a wonderful actor. I don’t have to tell you that he was remarkably clever. I wanted to compose; Viktor wanted to conduct. We balanced each other, complemented each other. Your father was restless and imaginative. Me, not so much. He was driving the tram, and I was sitting in the back.”
I had always wondered about my mother, what she was like. She existed almost only in my imagination, re-created from snatches of stories that Poppy told me and the few photographs of her. Maybe it was time to ask Hans more.
Taking a breath, I asked, “How did Poppy meet my mother?”
“One rainy afternoon in Municipal House. Maria knew who he was, the Great Viktor Mueller. I’m surprised he didn’t have it printed on his business card. She wasn’t going to fall for his practiced lines and saw right through him. But I suppose she saw something else, maybe the real man behind all those characters, all that surface charm. To begin with, she wouldn’t go out with him unless I came along. Imagine that—I was Viktor’s chaperone! We went to concerts and plays, had picnics, took trips. Your mama … well, it’s hard to find the words, Max. You’re much better at words than I am. I could compose some beautiful and graceful piece of music to capture who she was. It wouldn’t do her justice. We loved her. She was so like your Sophie, Max.”
That night as I fell asleep, I thought of where I’d been and where we were going. I had often asked myself this question as I struggled to understand it all: Are we all going to die? And I almost laughed a bitter laugh as I saw then with a horrible clarity that of course we were. But death is not something that you wait for. It is happening all the time everywhere—even coming for my mother before the war. I still had a vivid memory of her. I couldn’t avoid it, and I couldn’t sit back and blame God. I came to the realization that it was up to me and me alone to sort through the sadness, to try somehow to make things better, brighter if only for a moment, to make things right. I was in a world in which the walls were closing in all the time, and I needed to see what was still possible. Those who were dead were dead. But I was still here and so were many that I loved, and, more than ever, I had to muster up every bit of strength. One thing I knew for sure was what Poppy would want. I would never forget this, just as I would never forget Poppy. He would want me to have music. He would want me to have all that music meant in the world. I had to learn to hear the music again. After all, music can’t be kept in a box, otherwise it ceases to flow. I had to carry on. I had to fight. I had to take over for my father.
I made a silent vow to the Great Viktor Mueller. “I promise I will look to the day when I can feel the sunlight on my face and smile. I promise I will hear the music, Poppy. I promise to fight. I promise I’ll make a plan. I promise.”
A black Mercedes stopped in front of the SS headquarters and two SS men got out. They were from Berlin. I could tell by the plates. It was enough. A word formed on one of the officer’s lips: transport. Within a few minutes, everyone would know the trains had been replaced. Poppy’s heroism had given me a little more time. I ran back over to Hans’s studio.
“We have to get out of this place,” I said. “It was Poppy’s last wish.”
“Someone has to run the music program,” Hans said with conscious irony. “I’m a piano man, as you say. I wouldn’t be very good at making an escape. I’m too old. That’s a plan for a younger man. And look at my hands. I’d only hold you back. How are you going to do it?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“I believe you will. But you know I can’t go with you, Max.”
“Dammit, Hans.”
“Be careful, they must know by now that you’re Jewish.”
I looked at him in bewilderment. “What are you talking about? I’m Catholic, Hans. You know that.”
Hans sighed. “I thought Viktor would tell you. Your mother, Maria, was Jewish, although she was brought up in a convent by nuns.”
I stared at him, openmouthed.
“There’s a bit more,” Hans said. “I suspect that Heydrich knew this all the time, and he used it to blackmail Viktor, with the promise you would be safe, under his personal guarantee. He needed Viktor to serve his own cause. Viktor was exceptional, and you were the exception.”
I was lost for words. I was Jewish. All this time. I didn’t need to try to feel Jewish. I simply was. It was as though suddenly everything made sense. I belonged.
Hans looked at me silently. I found myself amused. I managed a smile. “I hope you won’t hold it against me, Hans.”
He smiled back. “Congratulations and bless you.”
Sophie was right again. When you least expect it, something happens.
“I’ll be all right, Max. Whatever happens.”
Could I believe that he would really be all right? Could I make myself believe? Hans didn’t allow anything or anyone to diminish his faith or his unfailing optimism. I had a clear glimpse of a man who suffered alone, of a graceful poet.
“You financed Mrs. Blomberg.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You eventually gave up all your property, your house, everything.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you never mentioned it. Oh, and I did see you handing over that envelope to her that time of course. I’m pretty certain that it was a bundle of cash and the deed to your house.”
“You know how to keep a secret, don’t you. I did what I could.”
I noticed a shedding cabbage rose Hans had picked from his garden. It was in a vase and had not lo
st its bloom. Its color was fading, but its petals were still alive.
Transports KR 431, 432, and 433 took away some of Terezín’s most gifted artists and musicians. Even the great Steinway Boys had gone. I had formed a close attachment with them, and it broke my heart. But every departure did.
The lists came through before anyone knew. There might be three or four transports waiting, one after another. It happened quickly.
That night, I picked up Huckleberry Finn again. I began skipping pages and then read how Jim sought freedom, rafting over the Mississippi River through rain, strong currents, floods, and shipwrecks. Resting for a moment, random thoughts from the book began to cobble together in my head, leaving me with a torrent of inspiration.
We said there warn’t no home like a raft, after all…You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft … So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the raft drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I poked along well onto an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep…A little riply cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done.
And just like that, I had my great idea.
A MEASURE OF COURAGE
Norbert Troller’s architectural skills were in demand after he built the “great bathhouse,” and he’d been working in SS quarters.
He pulled me by my blazer lapels into a side street. “Max, I overheard the SS saying that the Russians are advancing and Germany is in ruins.”
“It seems like fantastic news, Norbert.”
“No, Max. There’s something else. I saw the transport lists on Rahm’s desk.” He spoke quietly. “You and David … I suspect you’ve been marked.”
No surprise. We were on the list. And with my father dead, I realized that they had known my mother was Jewish all along. There was no more time.
My father’s words, Get out of Terezín, Max. Do whatever it takes. Get out, and get to Prague, rang in my head.
“I heard that Rahm plans to close down Vedem,” Troller said.
“How do you know?”
“You overhear a lot when you’re working at Himmler House. Freidle has lost his authority.”
I had to leave. Now was the time. “Norbert, have you ever read Huckleberry Finn? It’s an American book by Mark Twain.”
“I have, yes. I loved the adventure, the lyricism, the freedom … lights out for the territory.” He seemed briefly lost in reverie.
“About the Mississippi River.”
“The great Mississippi! It’s a mighty river.”
“You’re a genius, Norbert. You don’t need me to tell you that, but in case you do, that’s just what you are. You can do anything. You’re an architect, designer, artist, master carpenter. Can you do it, Norbert?”
“Calm down, Max. Do what?”
“Build me a raft.”
Norbert wrinkled his brow. “Why?”
“I’m leaving.”
He waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to know anything about this.”
“You already know, Norbert. I just told you.”
After a moment’s pause, he smiled. “I can do it. It’s not so difficult.”
“You’re a saint, Norbert.” I smiled. “And guess what? I’ve discovered I’m Jewish!”
“Mazel tov!” Then with a glint in his eye, “You know, you might be the only person around here who would celebrate that. Max, you’re one of a kind.”
Norbert was busier than ever working at Himmler House. Rahm was demanding improvements, frustrating Norbert, who only wanted to paint the countryside. For the SS headquarters, he had been ordered to fabricate a door separating the anteroom from the offices. He made it unusually large, figuring that a space twelve feet high and nine across only needed a double door. By making two, he would have extra for a raft. He reinforced it with balsa wood and three coats of marine varnish that would dry in a matter of days.
Always a student of design, he confided to me that at night, he had been studying naval architecture in the library at SS headquarters. He was reading a book about boat construction, by Vice-Admiral Wilhelm Kronowitz, a noted naval architect. Learning that airtight oil drums could make a flotation device, he found several empty ones near the Little Fortress. Lashing one to each corner of the raft would ensure it would float.
“What’s in the drums?”
“Highly flammable kerosene,” came the answer.
“We’ll need to clean them.”
“How much time do we have?”
“I don’t know. It took God seven days to create the world. Maybe I can do it in six.”
“You’re a good man, Norbert Troller.”
“I know.”
Norbert took every safety precaution. He had a crew of loyal carpenters.
“You might have a slim chance of getting away with this, Max,” he said.
If I could get to Prague, I knew I could manage.
Moving the raft out of the carpentry shop wasn’t a problem. Norbert’s workforce had been enlisted to carry waterproofed wooden doors over to the Hotel SS. A supervisor thought they were just remodeling materials. Troller ordered up some lightweight canvas from the army to cover the roof of the headquarters while reinforcing it. He laminated the bottom of the raft, sealing it with water-resistant materials. Four plastic drums were attached and hidden in an equipment shed. His craftsmanship and attention to detail were remarkable.
“Would you like blue canvas or dark gray, Max?”
“I have a choice?”
“You have a choice.”
“I think dark gray.”
“Custom-built; give the client what he wants.”
Extra canvas was used to construct a tent, attached to an eight-foot mast. The craft was beautiful. It was functional, made right in plain sight of the German authorities! Norbert had been brilliant in his deception. They had no idea what he was up to.
There was one more thing I had to do. Taking my cue from Troller, I did some research and scoured the library for chemistry books. In class demonstrations at school, I’d learned how magnesium and sulfuric acid could cause combustible reactions. I found a case with some old journals. Page after page had diagrams about fire, gas, and kerosene. I found a simple and explosive way to say goodbye.
From our “shipyard” I thought about my imminent escape. I knew my plan was the only way out—it would be far too difficult to travel by foot. I copied diagrams of the rivers from the map on Freidle’s wall whenever I was alone. If I could navigate the Ohře down to the Elbe tributary and join up with the Vltava, I’d be okay. I didn’t know about currents or weather, but the rivers were high, and the tide was running downstream. With any luck, there would be no obstacles. Huck and Tom had managed. So could I.
Little by little, in the late afternoons, with Pavel’s help, we carted supplies down to the shores of the river. We hid them, along with the raft, under the dock, between wooden pilings.
At any time, we knew we could be betrayed by the farmer. But as long as Norbert was painting portraits of Pavel’s entire family—currently his mother-in-law, much to the pleasure of his wife—we would be safe and furnished with modest provisions. After all, Pavel had never liked Germans.
With a final touch, Norbert presented me with a round life-saving buoy. He really had thought of everything. He had cut and fitted a circle from some cork that was to have been used for kitchen flooring in the officers’ quarters. After rounding the edges, he wrapped it with white waterproof tape and secured it with navy-blue-and-red bands. The center read ss max. It was an impressive achievement.
I recalled the best word I could think to describe him. Only extra special people had my admiration, only a few really counted, and, like David, Norbert Troller was a topper!
“I’ll need a box, Norbert, for my hurdy-gurdy. It’s not so big, and I need to take it with me.”
Norbert frowned. “It’s extra weight. With provisions, the raft will only hold three people as it is.”
“I hate to leave it behind. I’m attached to it, just like you to your velvet coat. We can make it work.”
“I’ll make a waterproof box.” Norbert shook his head. “You’re quite mad, you know. A hurdy-gurdy on a river raft escape. Even Huckleberry Finn wouldn’t dare to try it.”
Finally, he presented a blue linen bag—he had had one of his workers sew pillows and wool scraps between two sheets. “Sleeping bags, compliments of Hotel Himmler. Max, you can now say you’re sleeping with the enemy!”
I couldn’t suppress a smile.
“You know there’s space for you, Norbert. Come with me?”
“No, Max, this is your adventure. Take your friends. If I’m busy working for the SS, and they need my services, I should be secure. And anyway, Max,” he said with a shrug and a small smile, “I’m too old to travel.”
Suddenly, we heard guns booming far away, and seconds later, more gunfire edging closer. Formations of planes flew overhead. Clouds of smoke darkened the sky in the distance. Were they Russian or German? We couldn’t see through the fire and smoke. Cannons and shells exploded, sounds which could only mean a fierce battle. The conflict was getting ever closer.
Freidle later told us that British and American troops were crossing the Rhine and planes were bombing an industrial plant near us, sending layers of dust over the camp.
The end of the war was near. It had to be. The Germans were getting desperate.
Heading back to the Hotel SS, I turned and went to David’s barracks.
When I stumbled into David’s room, I found him sitting on his bunk, his face ashen.
“David, what is it?”
“We’re on the list.” Rahm had ordered additional transports, taking whole blocks of people indiscriminately, with no exemptions. We had watched people leave in despair, walking with a shambling gait, helpless, disoriented, while only a few kept an ever-dimming spark of hope alive. One father entered a transport holding a heavy woolen jacket that belonged to his son who had left a few weeks earlier; a few women wanted to rejoin their husbands and friends at any cost.
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